Second Chances
by Ancalime8301
Summary: Holmes discovers that he wants something he'd never even considered, then is given the chance to try to obtain it. Warning: mpreg, character deaths mentioned in part 2
1. Chapter 1

A/N:Written for the shkinkmeme prompt: _Watson and Holmes end up having sex that night at the gypsy camp. A month or so after Holmes's death, Watson realizes that he's pregnant.  
Holmes who is still concealing himself as furniture in Watson's home from time to time (maybe he needs to hide out from the bad guys from a bit..idk) begins to realize that Watson is pregnant and decides to visit more frequently just to make sure Watson and the baby are okay.  
As the months pass, it gets harder and harder for Holmes to control himself when he's disguised. He just wants to reach out and comfort Watson when his back hurts or he has a cramp. Touch his stomach and kiss him and do wicked things with him because Watson pregnant is so very wonderful. He knows he can't risk Watson and he makes the decision to not visit anymore.  
When Holmes returns from the "dead", he is determed to get Watson pregnant again no matter how long it takes so that he can do all things he wanted to do when he was watching Watson during his first pregnancy.  
TL;DR - After AGOS, Holmes finds it harder and harder to not blow his cover when he's hiding out from Watson who is pregnant. After Holmes returns from the "dead" he's determined to get Watson pregnant again._

* * *

_Second Chances_

The small house on Cavendish Place drew him like a moth to a flame.

His first visit under the cover of darkness consisted only of peering through the window of Watson's study; despite the late hour Watson was typing away, and Holmes couldn't help but notice the armchair that faced Watson's desk.

That very armchair had first given him the idea of urban camouflage, and it had been his first experimental subject. The pattern down the middle had been difficult to replicate-of course he would choose something challenging for the inaugural attempt-but he had ultimately been successful and spied on the goings-on of the house for a full day without anyone being the wiser (that Watson had been away much of that day had nothing to do with his success). The chair had faced the study's fireplace then; this new position was ideal for watching Watson.

It was a matter of only a few minutes' work to sneak into his old rooms, retrieve the chair-suit, and slip back out again. It was more than a week before he could execute his intention to observe Watson; his efforts were required elsewhere to begin drawing a net around Moriarty's organization, which was more active than had been expected following the death of its erstwhile leader. Mycroft worked with him, calling in favors and capitalizing on his international ties to guarantee the cooperation of numerous continental governments when the trap was ready to be sprung.

When Holmes had been shut in his little corner of Mycroft's rooms for five days straight, he decided an outing was needed. He went, of course, to Watson's house, slipping into the study in the dim pre-dawn and taking his position in the chair (the outer clothing he'd worn outside was concealed in the shrubbery below the window).

He listened carefully to the sounds of the waking household, tracking the footsteps of Watson and Mary and the part-time maid. After breakfast, Watson came to the study, setting his cup of tea on his desk before building and lighting a sizable fire; he intended to remain in the room for some time.

Watching Watson work on the typewriter was most instructive. His writing process remained unchanged; he wrote, muttered to himself and read aloud under his breath before dedicating himself to churning out more words, but now his curses and imprecations were directed at mistyped letters or jammed typewriter keys rather than a blotchy pen or a spilled inkwell.

Mary appeared with a pot of tea partway through the morning. She kissed his forehead and he patted her hand briefly then returned to his furious typing. She seemed amused when she turned away and she added a few more logs to the fire as she left.

Watson worked steadily on, absent-mindedly drinking his tea and appearing increasingly frustrated with his story. It was no wonder-he was attempting to set down the pursuit of Moriarty but dared not tell the whole truth, so he was mired in a morass of half-truths concocted for the public and unable to slog his way to the solid ground of the ending.

Holmes listened, cringed at some of the transparent attempts at falsification, hoped Watson's editor was equal to the task of producing something less nonsensical for publication, and felt something akin to guilt that Watson had to tell this tale at all. Having Watson write it so soon was Mycroft's idea, in hopes Moriarty's underlings would behave with less care in the absence of their leader's great opponent and thus be easier to expose, but, in watching Watson, Holmes thought it was perhaps premature.

Mary interrupted Watson for lunch, insisting that he leave his desk for a few minutes at least. In Watson's absence, Holmes quickly stood and carefully shook out his arms and legs, stretching stiff muscles and taking deep breaths to prepare himself for an afternoon of watchfulness. As soon as he heard footsteps in the hall he resumed his pose.

Watson returned with a sandwich on a plate and yet another cup of tea in his hand. He added more wood to the fire and settled into his chair with a groan, slumping against the back and glaring at the paper in the typewriter. He ate his sandwich in this position, lost in thought while crumbs bedecked his waistcoat.

Holmes could tell when inspiration struck: Watson abruptly sat up, pulled the half-finished page from the machine, balled it up, tossed it into the fire, and inserted a new sheet, looking quite satisfied with himself as the clack of keys resumed.

There was less frustrated muttering now, and he was so absorbed he did not acknowledge Mary taking away his half-eaten sandwich or Gladstone flopping onto the floor in front of the fire.

The words flowed at a steady pace for some hours. Periodically Watson would review a newly completed page with his earlier draft, then crumple and toss the draft page at the fire. He began to slow after a while, taking more care with his word choices, and Holmes inferred he was near the end.

Mary brought in the post, including a familiar brown-paper package and Holmes was pleased he would witness Watson's reaction first-hand. Mary gently reminded Watson he needed to pack for Brighton and Holmes found it rather strange to be party to a conversation about himself; while he didn't entirely believe that Mary missed him, she had him pegged quite accurately.

Then she left, and Watson was opening the parcel. He was confused at first, then he recognized the item stowed within the box and drew it out carefully. His expression was difficult to read, especially with the visual limitations of the hood, but Watson looked almost hopeful as he stared at the oxygen supply. His eyes strayed to the door as if expecting someone to have appeared there when he wasn't looking. Finding nothing, he stood, still holding the device, and left the room to pepper Mary with questions about the deliverer of the parcel.

Holmes took the opportunity to rise and stride to the typewriter, motioning for Gladstone to remain still when the dog seemed ready to either bark or approach him, and skimmed the stark words on the paper. He carefully inserted a question mark after Watson's (misguided) "THE END".

While it would have been amusing to remain to see if Watson noticed the alteration, he really did have other work to attend to, work which must be done before he could officially show Watson it wasn't the end at all.

Holmes slipped out the window and contemplated making a side trip to Brighton. It could be worthwhile, particularly if Moran or any of his associates decided to keep Watson within their sights.

.

Mycroft forbade him from going to Brighton, but he did have the Watsons followed to ensure their safety.

Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary happened to them. It was almost a disappointment.

Holmes' presence in London during that week was fortunate in the end, for there were several important developments that greatly assisted his efforts to tease out the connections between the levels of Moriarty's organization and Colonel Moran.

The preliminary work had been done when he was focusing on Moriarty, of course, but some shifts had occurred in the few months since the professor's demise and the structure of the organization was more stable than it had seemed earlier. By rights, the organization he had traced out in pursuing Moriarty should not have remained cohesive without the mastermind, but it was and that made it all the more dangerous now that he could not perform his work as himself. Always he wore disguises when out, sometimes more than one with rapid switches between them in alleys and dark doorways, and always he was on guard against being followed.

As soon as Moran figured out he wasn't dead, Watson would be in danger once more.

The developments during Watson's belated honeymoon necessitated his presence on the continent to gather additional information, so he was unable to drop in again for a full fortnight after Watson's return from Brighton.

As before, he arrived before dawn, dressed as the chair, and was settled in place before the house's inhabitants woke. This morning it was only Watson and Mary-the maid must have the day off-and from the way their steps never remained in the same room for long it seemed they were at odds about something. Most interesting.

When Watson entered the study, it was with a tray-the discord extended to his dear wife not bringing him his tea-which he set on the desk, then went back to close the door before tending the fire.

Holmes was barraged with several observations at once: he'd never seen Watson close the study door before; Watson's appetite was lagging, for he had not yet eaten breakfast and the only food on the tray was toast; and Watson had put on more weight, enough to strain the buttons of his waistcoat near his waist. The last two seemed contradictory, but the first two combined pointed to distress on Watson's part that involved Mary and possibly had something to do with the third. Nothing more could be inferred without additional information.

Watson sat at his desk with a sigh and pulled a stack of files over. These he read and jotted in and separated into three piles of approximately equal height. This he did while sipping tea and ignoring the toast completely.

Watson had been sorting for several hours when there was a tentative knock at the door. He sighed and called wearily, "Come in."

Mary entered and went to his side but did not touch him. "How are you doing?" she asked gently.

"Nearly done, I think."

"Are you certain this is what you should do?"

"Yes," Watson answered flatly.

Ah, here was the disagreement.

"I don't understand why. This is not something to be ashamed of."

"Anyone with half a brain and a calendar will know that I was unfaithful," Watson said with the impatient air of one who has said the same thing numerous times before.

"It was an indiscretion, as you said. I might be of a different opinion if he were still here to tempt you, but he's not, and for your sake I am glad you will have something of him to hold on to."

"Not everyone is so generous," he said softly, taking her hand and kissing it. "I need to be able to face my patients afterward, and I don't want you to suffer for my lapse. So yes, I must withdraw from practice until the child is born."

"What will you tell your colleagues?"

"With your permission, I will tell them you are suffering in the early stages of pregnancy and I must tend you."

"Which will explain the appearance of an infant in a few months," she said thoughtfully, nodding slowly.

"I know it is asking much of you to maintain the pretense, since you also cannot go out until after the birth. And we must fire the maid."

"We will need someone to bring us what we need," Mary said reasonably.

"I know. I haven't gotten that far yet."

"Mrs. Hudson," Mary suggested. "Or we could ask Mr. Holmes to find someone trustworthy."

"We're not bringing Mycroft into this," Watson objected.

"Why not? He's the uncle, and you know he is well-connected. He could even find someone discreet to tend you."

Watson heaved another sigh, resting his face in his hands and his elbows on the desk.

Mary rubbed his shoulders and let him remain in silence for some moments. "I will go speak to Mrs. Hudson this afternoon. Would you like me to see Mr. Holmes as well? You can straighten things out with the other doctors."

"I ought to see Mycroft," Watson said reluctantly.

"Then I will go with you," Mary said decisively, leaning forward and kissing his cheek. "You do not have to do this alone."

"You are being far too kind," Watson said, sounding resigned.

"We'll go tomorrow. And maybe he'll know who sent you this thing," she continued, picking up the oxygen device from Watson's desk beside the typewriter.

"Maybe," Watson agreed absently, his eyes flicking toward the open door.

Holmes realized with a start that Watson was watching for him, as if expecting him to turn up at any moment. He had meant the anonymous dispatch of the device to give Watson a hint to what happened, but he did not anticipate that Watson would place such faith in it as to actually look for him.

But it paled in comparison to the revelation that Watson was expecting their child. His earlier observations made perfect sense in this light, though he never would have anticipated this explanation.

By this point his shock was such that he didn't notice when Watson and Mary left the room. Watson had taken his files and the fire was nearly dead, so it was reasonable to think they would not return. He slipped out, dressed, and returned to Mycroft's rooms in a daze.

He shut himself in his secluded room and smoked his pipe all night, pondering the situation and whether he could alter his plans in any way in order to present himself to Watson sooner.

He concluded he could not.

Watson-and their child-would only be safe if he remained dead until Moran was disposed of and the organization abolished once and for all.

.

Holmes was in the midst of rearranging his clippings and their corresponding threads-his latest spider's web-when Carruthers arrived to summon him to dinner. He tried to persuade the implacable man he was very busy and would eat later, but Carruthers was insistent that Mycroft demanded his presence for the meal. Holmes finally threw down his work with a huff and stalked to the dining room.

Mycroft was serving up a plate of food when he entered, and placed it in front of the empty chair meant for Holmes. "Sit," Mycroft commanded, and Holmes sat.

The elder Holmes had the look of a man with something on his mind. "I would have expected you to take more care, given the potential for unintended consequences," Mycroft said reprovingly, then took a bite of steak and hummed appreciatively.

Holmes picked up his fork and idly pushed at his food. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, training his eyes on the peas he was shoving into his mashed potatoes.

"On the contrary, I think it quite evident that you do," Mycroft countered after a sip of wine.

Holmes ignored him and began shredding his meat with his fork.

"But if you're going to insist upon behaving like a child, I will start at the beginning." He cleared his throat dramatically. "I had a most interesting visit with Dr. and Mrs. Watson this afternoon at the Diogenes. It would seem you have left the good Doctor in something of a situation following an ill-advised tryst during your travels. He is due to birth your child some four months hence. So as I said, I would have expected you to take care to prevent such an occurrence."

"We usually did," Holmes retorted. "But we were not prepared - we had not been involved in that way since his engagement . . . we'd been drinking . . ." he trailed off.

"Yes, your Doctor said you were both impaired at the time," Mycroft confirmed. "In any case, they have asked-well, Mrs. Watson requested-that I find someone discreet to assist him with the pregnancy and birth."

"Will you?" Holmes asked, suddenly quite apprehensive.

"Don't be daft, of course I will. The child will, after all, be my only niece or nephew." He sounded quite pleased by the prospect.

Holmes flushed and felt himself relax slightly, and he even ventured a bite or two.

"You must not allow yourself to be distracted by this, Shirley. I strongly suggest that you discontinue your visits to his house," Mycroft said urgently.

"I most certainly will not," Holmes shot back. "Now more than ever I must keep an eye on him."

"The work must be done, and done properly. The sooner you conclude this business, the sooner you can return to being yourself."

"Thank you, Mycroft, I am well aware of that," Holmes snapped as he stood, pushing back his chair with some force. "Now if you'll excuse me, you pulled me away from that all-important work to have this inane conversation, so I'm going to go back to it."

He stormed from the room, chased by Mycroft calling, "Remember to rest once in a while."

.

Holmes worked tirelessly to piece together all he could discover about the organization he intended to destroy, sending out innumerable telegrams in his brother's name and receiving telegrams, letters, and even packets of papers in response. These he read carefully, taking notes and requesting more detail where necessary, then fitted these new facts into the old to gradually reveal new dimensions and additional players. It was painstaking work of the kind that could benefit from occasional time away so his mind could meditate while his consciousness was otherwise occupied.

He faithfully visited Watson once a week.

The first week Watson wore his waistcoat unbuttoned, so when he moved the fabric swung with his movements and obscured the shape of his stomach. When he sat, it was at his desk, so Holmes was quite frustrated in his hopes of seeing how Watson looked. Watson worked on correspondence during the morning, then left for lunch and never returned. Holmes remained until nightfall in hopes of seeing him again.

The second week Watson dispensed with the waistcoat and wandered about the house in shirtsleeves and braces. He did not find his way into his study until after lunch, but Holmes thought it well worth the wait. Not only was Watson's form quite evident in his shirt and trousers-and his abdomen already protruded in a most pleasing fashion-but Watson settled in his armchair by the window rather than behind his desk, so Holmes could stare openly as long as Watson's head was bent over the book he read. And oh, did he stare, especially when Watson's hand moved to his stomach and rubbed idly. His hands itched to touch, to stroke, to hold Watson close with their child between them.

The third week Watson worked at his typewriter most of the day, a returned manuscript at his elbow as he made changes and corrections in compliance with his editor's recommendations. It was the story of the goose and the carbuncle; a fairly straightforward story, but evidently the editor thought Watson's version was lacking by the dirty looks he was shooting at the notes scrawled in the margins of his draft. Watson stood and stretched periodically and provided Holmes a tantalizing glimpse of shirt buttons straining ever so slightly and an unfastened top trouser button. Holmes found it exceedingly difficult not to rise or at least reach out, and had to bite the inside of his cheek until it bled to keep himself composed and still.

The fourth week Watson only entered the study for brief periods to retrieve things from his desk. He was beginning to walk differently, the added weight in front altering his posture and balance, and his shirt was quite decidedly strained across his abdomen. Holmes rather hoped this meant he would no longer be wearing one by the next week, and in the following days he frequently found his thoughts straying to conjectures about how Watson would presently look without clothing.

The fifth week Watson was, alas, wearing a shirt that was rather too loose on him-it could even have been Mycroft's from the size-but the silly man still insisted upon tucking it in even though he couldn't fully button his trousers, so that magnificent stomach was on display with every move. His movements were more careful than before, and his hands strayed from time to time to his lower back or to cup his belly as if pushing it up to lessen the strain. Holmes longed to press himself against Watson's back and reach around him to gently cradle the child in his hands.

The sixth week Watson was reading in his armchair by the window again. His abdomen was now so swollen that it seemed to rest on his thighs when he sat down, and he used it as a ledge on which to stand the book as he read. He absently stroked his stomach, occasionally pressing the heel of his hand in and then soothing his fingers over the area afterward. He seemed to fall asleep, the book sliding down with his limp hand, his other hand resting lightly on his abdomen. Mary found him thus, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. Watson stirred and smiled sleepily at her, reaching for her hand and placing it where his hand had been. "He's kicking." Holmes felt an intense jealousy and rage that she should be the one to feel the child move and not him.

It was much harder to concentrate on schemes and plots to entrap criminals when he knew that his child was growing and moving in Watson and he could not touch him. Not one kiss, not one caress; he could not even see him gloriously naked in his gravid state. All his being longed for Watson, thought of Watson, obsessed over Watson and how he was faring during those six days of the week while he forced himself to think of other, supposedly greater, things when all he really wanted to do was shut himself in a room with Watson and do things to him. Rub his back. Stroke his belly. Kiss him senseless. Feel the child kick while he buried himself deep within Watson.

Mycroft frowned and scolded him often for his lapses in concentration. He couldn't help it; thinking of Watson was much more agreeable than trying to work out a way to spring a trap on as many parts of Moriarty's-now Moran's-organization as was possible, and all at the same time so they couldn't warn one another. Which isn't to say he didn't make progress in those weeks, just that the progress perhaps wasn't as substantial as it might have been.

The seventh week Watson was using his cane, the added weight evidently proving too much of a strain on his bad leg. He walked carefully, holding himself as if he were in pain, and when he sat in his desk chair he grimaced, clawing futilely at the pain in his lower back. Holmes could help, if only he could touch, but that was impossible. When Mary came in a short time later, Watson's face quickly smoothed into a placid expression, and Holmes wondered if she had any idea that he was in pain and hiding it from her. He liked to think he would have been able to see through Watson's attempt to disguise it.

The eighth week Watson seemed melancholy. He had an edited manuscript before him, but showed no enthusiasm in producing a new copy; when he set his fingers to the keys, he touched them too lightly to make an impression or he simply typed one word and stopped again. His eyes often strayed between the door and an item on his desk instead of alighting on the manuscript. Finally he sat back and sighed heavily, picking up the oxygen device and staring at it mournfully before tossing it down again and rubbing his face with his hands. "I don't know what to believe anymore," he said despairingly. He pushed himself to his feet and, with his cane, slowly left the room. He didn't return again that day. When Holmes slipped past the desk on his way out the window, he saw that the manuscript was about his pursuit of Moriarty, what Watson called "The Final Problem".

The ninth week Watson was still working on his final problem. He was much more dedicated in applying himself to the task than he'd been the week before, but his attention still wandered periodically. When he finished, he looked profoundly unhappy and once more took the oxygen device into his hand. He cradled it in his palm as if weighing it, then with a sudden burst of motion he flung it through the door and into the hall, where it slid into the wall with a thump. Gladstone's head rose up from his paws and he trotted out after it.

Watson pushed himself away from the desk with a grunt and took himself to the armchair beside the window. He sat motionless for quite some time, staring sightlessly at the panes. Mary quietly entered and went to him; Watson acknowledged her with a brittle smile before turning back to the window. When he didn't respond to her stroking his cheek, she knelt on the chair cushion astride his lap. She cradled his head against her chest and his breath hitched; he clutched her waist as if he were drowning and she murmured soothingly, her hands stroking up and down his back.

When Holmes could see Watson's face again, his expression was less strained than before. Mary cupped Watson's face in her hands and said, "I can guess some of the things that will ease you, but you must tell me the others. I'm here to help you. Please let me. For my sake, and for his." Watson sighed gustily and nodded slightly, then Mary withdrew from his lap and stood, offering her hands to help him up. When he was on his feet she slipped her arm around his back and walked with him to the door, asking if he'd like her to run a bath.

Holmes was glad to see them leave only because he would have been unable to keep his peace much longer. The strain of remaining utterly still even as he witnessed Watson's misery was more than he could bear, particularly since Watson's distress was caused by his own absence. Coming here was merely taunting himself with what he could not have-what he might have had, had things turned out differently-and he could not stand it any longer. He could no longer visit; he would leave London entirely to remove himself from temptation.

He packed his meager belongings that very night. Mycroft watched him with something like bemusement, but he did not say a word. "I will conclude this business myself to be sure it is done properly," Holmes said unnecessarily.

"Keep me apprised of your whereabouts," Mycroft said mildly.

"And you will send word of any developments," Holmes demanded.

"Of course, dear brother. Now get some rest, there is no need to depart this instant."

Holmes remained, but he did not sleep. He spent the night ensuring he had committed to memory all pertinent facts from his web of papers and threads and contemplating what remained to be done.

He had approximately two months before the child's birth.

.

Telegrams frequently passed between Holmes and his brother in those weeks as Holmes traveled the continent, gathering the last bits of information he needed and, in his guise as Mycroft's associate, discussing the plans with the official police forces. In his wake, certain portions of the organization were captured-an all-at-once strategy having been deemed too unwieldy to execute-and slowly his work came to fruition.

Nine weeks after he left England, Holmes was in a seedy hotel in Paris, awaiting word about the final two operations: one there in Paris, the other in London. The telegram he received was on a different subject entirely.

CHILD LATE BUT HEALTHY STOP ALL ARE WELL STOP NAMED HER SHIRLEY FINAL STOP

He was on his way to Calais and a boat to England within a quarter hour, Moriarty's organization be damned.

He arrived in time to watch an approaching boat dock and the passengers disembark. His gaze idly swept over the people making their way off the boat when he was startled to see a familiar bearded figure amongst the crowd. He froze in place, hoping his disguise was sufficient to hide him as he stared at the man striding through the throngs.

It couldn't be. He was supposed to be in London.

But it was. Moran had slipped the net.

The chase was on.

After following Moran long enough to determine his intended route, Holmes ducked into the telegraph office to send word to his brother. A note from Mycroft already awaited him; he was thankful he took the extra few moments to have any notices forwarded here from his former location. Mycroft's brief message confirmed that Moran had fled and was bound for France, so Holmes sent a terse reply that he was on Moran's tail.

Moran's train had left by the time the telegraph operator was finished slowly counting out his change. So he pursued Moran, trailing his every footstep and always just a little too far behind. It was nearly a month before he finally caught up. And when he did, Moran quickly realized he was being followed. So Holmes allowed Moran to catch a glimpse of him undisguised to give his prey something to think about.

What resulted was terribly predictable. Moran tried to set a trap for him, to turn the tables so he was the hunter and Holmes the hunted. Holmes walked into said trap, knowing precisely what it was and dodging at the last minute so the bullet intended for his heart passed between his torso and arm instead. He was wounded, as he could not fail to be, but not so severely that he could not prevail in the hand-to-hand struggle that came after.

He made it onto the boat to Dover before he collapsed from exhaustion and blood loss.


	2. Chapter 2

Holmes woke in a strange bed in a strange place, beset by strange sounds and smells. He kept his eyes closed and his breath even while he tried to regain his bearings, wary of signaling his wakefulness without knowledge of his circumstances. He was near the sea, from the smell of fish, and he vaguely recalled boarding a ferry, but his mind felt sluggish and dull and he couldn't recollect much more.

"I know you're awake so you might as well open your eyes," a familiar voice said.

He allowed his eyes to drift open as he felt a sense of relief. "Mycroft," he croaked hoarsely.

"Ah, there you are." Mycroft leaned forward and spoke softly. "Before you say anything more, remember that these people know you as William Escott and I am your colleague."

Holmes nodded; the rest slowly filtered back once that piece was in place. "How long?" he asked, realizing from the weakness he felt that he had been abed for several days at least.

"I have been here a week, and you were ill for three days before I arrived."

"Watson?"

"Doing well when I left. Mrs. Hudson is keeping me informed."

Holmes nodded drowsily, sleep tugging at him again already.

Mycroft noticed, of course. "Rest now. We will have time to talk later."

Holmes spent an unusual amount of time asleep over the next several days as he recuperated, so it took him a while to pester Mycroft into explaining how they both had ended up in the home of a retired doctor and his wife. The couple had been fellow passengers on the ferry, returning from an extended holiday, so when Holmes collapsed and the call went out for a doctor, the retired doctor naturally offered to assist (it was what Watson would have done). When it was clear Holmes had no one traveling with him or awaiting him in Dover, the couple offered to care for him until a friend or family member could be located, much to the relief of the stationmaster.

Mycroft wired to Dover when his brother failed to appear in London-Holmes had sent a telegram that Moran had been disposed of, and Mycroft had calculated how long it should have taken him to arrive, allowing a day or two for unforeseen delays-and was informed of the situation. He went to Dover the next morning and found Holmes in a state of delirium. Moran's bullet had grazed both his torso and the inside of his arm and both wounds had become grievously infected; Holmes' exertions had left him weak and ill-equipped to fight the fever that raged as a result. His condition was sufficiently grave for a time that there was some question whether he would recover.

One afternoon Holmes woke from a nap to see Mycroft frowning over a letter in his hand. When Mycroft saw he was awake, he schooled his expression and carefully refolded the paper. "What's wrong?" Holmes demanded.

"Just a business matter," Mycroft said dismissively.

"Nonsense. I know what Mrs. Hudson's handwriting looks like. What has happened?"

Mycroft sighed. "There is an outbreak of influenza in the area of London where the Watsons live."

"Surely they have relocated to Baker Street."

Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably. "They have already taken ill."

Holmes began climbing out of bed and looked around frantically for his clothes and his pack. His wounds burned as he moved, but he ignored them.

Mycroft pushed him back onto the bed. "You are not yet well enough to travel and there is nothing you could do for them even if you were."

"But I should be there. I should have been there some time ago."

"That can't be helped. You were doing what needed to be done."

Still Holmes hesitated on the edge of the bed and Mycroft sighed.

"I will make arrangements for our departure, but we will allow this doctor to have the final say as to when we leave."

Holmes reluctantly agreed.

The aged doctor objected strenuously to the proposal, insisting that Holmes ought to convalesce at least another week, and preferably two, before attempting to travel. But Holmes was insistent and at length the doctor agreed that he could leave when his fever had been entirely absent for two consecutive days.

They left three days later on the evening train. Mycroft reserved an entire compartment so Holmes could stretch out on one of the benches and rest. Holmes did lie down, but discomfort and thoughts of what he might find in London kept him from sleeping. By the time the train made its stop in Canterbury, he recognized the signs of his fever returning. When they disembarked in London he could not hide the renewed trembling in his limbs and Mycroft frowned at him. The journey from the train platform to his bed at Mycroft's home was a blur, as were the days that followed.

He lost four days to the relapse.

When he finally threw off the fever dreams and woke properly, the first thing he said upon seeing Mycroft was "Watson?"

Mycroft shushed him and pressed him to drink broth and tea. He would not speak of Watson until Holmes refused to cooperate until he was told of Watson's health. "He has prevailed over his illness," Mycroft said evasively.

Something in Mycroft's expression filled him with apprehension. "But?"

"He has lost both wife and child and is sick with grief."

A lump lodged in Holmes' throat, a weight settled on his chest, and he struggled to breathe. "I must see him," he choked out, clutching the bedclothes in frustration at the profound weakness that chained him to the bed.

"I have invited him to stay here," Mycroft said.

"Thank you," Holmes said breathlessly.

But two days passed and there was no sign of Watson and Holmes feared he would not come. He fretted about Watson and was restless in his impatient desire to go to him, which only kept him from resting and prolonged his recovery.

Mycroft grew visibly impatient with his near-constant inquiries about whether Watson had sent any reply and finally slipped him a sedative in his evening meal. This knocked him out cold until well into the next day, and even then it took him a while to fully shake it off.

Thus, at first he thought the haggard figure perched on the edge of his bed was a figment of his imagination. Then the figure grasped his hand tightly and whispered in disbelief, "Holmes."

"Watson," he murmured in response. "You look gorgeous," he added flippantly, but Watson didn't seem to hear him. The man looked terrible, pale and gaunt, but he had never seen a more welcome sight.

"What happened?"

"I had an encounter with Moran. Fortunately for me, he was not so skilled at boxing as his former master."

Watson huffed impatiently. "That's not what I meant."

"I know. That is a story I do not wish to tell just now." Watson seemed ready to protest, so Holmes added hurriedly, "Later, when you don't look like you're going to collapse between this breath and the next."

Watson nodded once, jerkily, then looked away for the first time since Holmes had opened his eyes. "Holmes," he said reluctantly, "there's something I need to tell you-"

"I already know."

Watson's eyes rose to Holmes', startled. "You already know about the child? How?"

"That, too, I will explain later."

Watson stared at him for a moment, then his composure failed and his face crumpled with grief. "Then you also know she and Mary-"

"Yes," Holmes said softly. He pushed himself up from his pillows and embraced Watson gingerly. Watson clutched him desperately and trembled in his arms.

When Watson's shaking seemed to subside, Holmes murmured, "I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner. I wished to be, but Moran was too dangerous to disregard."

"Why didn't you at least tell me you were alive?" He sounded betrayed.

"I didn't know how long that would be true. It was better that you think me dead prematurely than have to mourn me twice. And you had enough to worry about."

"Knowing you lived may have made those things easier," Watson replied wearily as his grip on Holmes began to weaken.

Holmes released him and sat back, noting Watson's exhaustion as he tried to rise from the bed. Watson's first attempt at standing was unsuccessful and he fell heavily back onto the bed. Holmes gripped his sleeve before he tried again. "Stay. The bed is large enough for us both."

Watson hesitated, then nodded, and allowed Holmes to push him back onto the pillows. "But I'm still angry that you didn't tell me," Watson mumbled.

"Of course you are," Holmes said reasonably as he moved over. "You can punch me for it later."

"Hmm," Watson agreed, his eyes drifting closed. He fell asleep quickly and Holmes sat watching him, feeling quite awake. His eyes roamed over Watson's form, content for now to visually reacquaint himself with Watson's body and save the touching for when Watson was awake. He imagined opening Watson's clothes, exposing his skin for touch and taste, learning the marks left on him by their child, and burying himself deeply within Watson until he drove all memory of his absence from Watson's mind.

He imagined taking Watson repeatedly until another child quickened within him and he could do all those things he wished to do while immobile in Watson's study.

He spent some time ruminating on this last thought, recognizing that an infant was the natural result of a pregnancy, and the presence of an infant in his life could-would-change everything. He wasn't overly concerned about whether Watson would desire such an outcome, as he had expressed a desire for a family prior to his marriage, and it was unlikely the recent events had satisfied his desire. Holmes' own feelings on the subject were more difficult to determine, never having expected to be in a situation where such an outcome was even possible.

Watson had been the cause of many unexpected-but not unwelcome-developments in Holmes' life.

.

From the very beginning Watson appeared reluctant to let Holmes out of his sight, even to the point that he would sleep in a chair beside Holmes' bed rather than sleeping wherever Mycroft had told him he could. Holmes was more than happy to have him share the bed-though, in spite of what he'd said earlier, it was a bit of a snug fit for two people-but being close enough to touch one another was awkward at best. Neither of them broached the topic of their former relations despite it evidently being at the forefront of their minds, preferring instead to flounder in the treacherous waters of things unsaid but keenly felt.

Watson immediately took it upon himself to tend to Holmes' medical needs, and in this guise Holmes allowed him to see the recently inflicted wounds as well as the lumpy scar from Moriarty's hook. Watson did not speak, only touched them gently, reverently.

Holmes did not touch Watson until Watson wept in his sleep, grieving for those he had lost. Then Holmes wrapped him in a firm embrace, rocking him slightly until he had wrung himself dry. This was why Holmes would not breathe a word of his desire for Watson: the man needed time to grieve for what he had lost.

Holmes' health improved steadily under Watson's care and nagging. He told Watson how he had come out of the river alive-he almost didn't-and reluctantly admitted that he'd spied on Watson while in London. Watson was aghast and aggrieved and stormed out of Mycroft's rooms in a rage. Holmes would've preferred being struck, for by the time he'd pulled on some clothes and tried to follow him, Watson had vanished into the streets.

Watson didn't return for three days.

Holmes spent the time in an armchair with a view of the front door, smoking and thinking. Many things passed through his mind in those long hours, and he found that, even more than he longed to straighten things out with Watson, he yearned to return to Baker Street, to his normal life, and he resolved to go back as soon as possible.

Almost as soon as he decided this, the front door opened and Watson stumbled through it.

Any words he'd prepared fled when he saw Watson, weary and bedraggled. He rose and went to him and guided him over to the chair he'd just vacated. Watson released a long sigh. "Holmes-"

"I'm sorry," Holmes said, the words spilling out. "I was seeking to protect you and Mary. There are many things about what I did and how I did it that I would change if I could, but you must realize I did only what I thought was best."

"As you always do," Watson said with a hint of sarcasm. "Perhaps you can set me straight on something, Holmes: just who did you think I would tell, other than Mary? I was cooped up in the house-which was your fault, by the way-so how was I going to divulge your little secret?"

Holmes floundered for a moment. "You maintained correspondence with a number of individuals."

"Who were concerned about Mary and whether I needed any help with her. You did not figure into the conversation in the slightest. And even if you had, I am capable of discretion. I am a doctor, after all."

Holmes had nothing to say. He truly hadn't thought about it that far; the issue had been settled as soon as he recognized even a hint of peril for Watson should he be informed. "If Moran or another of Moriarty's associates came after you, it was safer for you not to know anything."

"If they had come for me-which they did not-I don't think they would have been interested in what I did or did not know. Particularly once they got a good look at me."

"That may be, but I had to consider all possible outcomes."

"All of which apparently assumed that I can't keep a confidence. But that shouldn't surprise me. You never told me of your plans before, either." Watson pushed himself out of the chair and left the sitting room.

Holmes followed him into the hall. "I didn't want you to get hurt."

"So you hurt me instead. How kind," Watson said without turning or acknowledging him in any way.

Holmes stopped in his tracks, his shoulders slumped. "I'm so sorry," he murmured. He couldn't tell if Watson heard him.

Watson went into the small library and closed the door; Holmes didn't realize until he tried the knob that Watson had locked the door as well. He knocked. "Watson?"

There was no response. He listened carefully and could hear Watson's clothes rustling and the creak of the basket chair in the far corner as Watson sat down. He knocked repeatedly. "Watson, please, let me try to explain." But the room on the other side of the door was utterly silent.

At length he ceased his knocking and sat down with his back against the door, leaning his head against the jamb.

Holmes was jolted awake when the door opened and he nearly fell over onto the floor. He hurriedly clambered to his feet while Watson silently stared at him, his arms crossed across his chest and looking quite put-upon. "What do you want, Holmes?" he asked bluntly.

"You." His response was almost breathless and certainly not what he would have said were he not trying to shake off the lingering drowsiness from his all-too-brief nap. "I mean, I will be returning to my-our-the rooms and you are welcome to move back in, if you find yourself willing and able to put up with me once more."

Watson's stance relaxed. "Now who's a dingy bird?" he asked with a short laugh. "Yes, Holmes, I'll come back to Baker Street; the house is too big for one person. When will you be going?"

"Tomorrow," Holmes said quickly.

Watson was skeptical. "You haven't even been outside under your own power yet. And don't you think someone ought to warn Mrs. Hudson?"

"Mrs. Hudson can tolerate surprises," Holmes sniffed dismissively. "And it does not require much exertion to ride in a cab. I will be going tomorrow."

"Suit yourself. It will take me somewhat longer to pack my things, and I'll need to sell the house."

"That shouldn't be too difficult."

Watson eyed him suspiciously. "What do you know about buying and selling houses? No, never mind, don't answer that. I don't want to know."

.

Watson insisted on going with Holmes to Baker Street-his exact words were, "I wouldn't miss this for the world"-but he allowed Holmes to go up the front steps first. He reached for the bell but Holmes stopped him and pulled his key from his pocket.

"Are you trying to frighten her out of her mind?" Watson asked incredulously. Holmes just smiled.

He took his time unlocking the door and opening it; he and Watson stepped inside and closed the door firmly. Only then did Mrs. Hudson call out, "Who's there?" as she emerged from the kitchen.

When she caught sight of Holmes she visibly jumped a bit, her complexion paled, and she clutched a kitchen towel with a white-knuckled grip. Her eyes quickly shifted from Holmes to Watson and back again; she took a careful breath and said with forced cheerfulness, "Mr. Holmes."

"Nanny," Holmes replied evenly.

"I should have known better than to think I was free of you. It always seemed queer that your brother should pay to maintain your rooms." She flicked the towel in his direction. "Oh, go on. You know the way. Rent is due at the end of the week."

Holmes sniffed derisively and mounted the stairs. "I expect to find everything just as I left it."

"You'll be disappointed," she retorted, holding Watson back when he tried to follow Holmes. "Please tell me you will be returning as well," she murmured to Watson.

Holmes stopped listening when he opened the door to his sitting room. The curtains were all drawn, but even in the dim light he could tell the room was neat and tidy and most assuredly not as he had left it. "Woman!" he bellowed without turning around. "Where are the plants? The goat? The snake?"

Her reply was immediate and defiant. "Your brother removed your perishable belongings just after your funeral. I can only hope they are now in a more appropriate place."

Holmes harrumphed, then went to the windows to let in some light. He stood there, regarding the flow of traffic on the street below, until Watson came to look over his shoulder. "Not much has changed," Watson commented.

Intending to retort that he could list at least one dozen changes on this block alone, Holmes turned and his gaze fell directly on Watson's mouth. It was maddening, the way Watson's advantage in height put those delicious lips right at eye-level, and his train of thought was dashed to pieces as surely as a straying ship is wrecked upon a rocky shore.

Without a moment's hesitation he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Watson's.

Watson inhaled sharply, then, letting out the breath in a groan, he kissed Holmes hungrily, one hand burying itself in Holmes' hair while he other clutched at his back. Holmes' hands settled at Watson's waist and quickly burrowed their way under the layers of clothing to stroke the warm, soft skin of Watson's back. Inwardly Holmes exulted at his good fortune-he'd anticipated needing to persuade Watson into such activities-and feared that it was too good to last.

His misgivings were realized a few minutes later when Watson broke the heated kiss and said, panting, "Holmes, I can't."

Holmes dropped his hands and took a step back, hoping his expression didn't betray his disappointment.

"It's not what you think," Watson sputtered as Holmes began to turn away. "I mean I can't do this right now. I'm still grieving for Mary."

Holmes glanced back, belatedly remembering the significance of Watson's full mourning dress. "Yes, of course," he said hollowly, wondering if Watson meant to make him wait a full year before their intimate relationship could resume.

"And Mrs. Hudson will be bringing tea up at any minute," Watson added lamely even as there was a knock at the door.

Holmes remained by the window while Watson relieved Mrs. Hudson of the tea tray, his shirt still untucked in the back.

An awkward silence prevailed as they drank their tea, Watson in his armchair and Holmes remaining where he stood. Holmes shifted his attention from the street to a contemplation of Watson, who was insensible of Holmes' gaze until he looked up as he set his empty cup on the tray.

Watson looked away quickly, then cleared his throat and stood. "I should go," he said, facing Holmes but not looking at him. "There is much to do before I can move back here."

Holmes nodded jerkily and turned his gaze back out the window.

"I will visit, and you are welcome to come to the house. You know where it is," he added with a touch of irony in his voice. "And you'd better clean up that mess you made in my office so I have somewhere to put my notebooks."

Holmes allowed himself a bit of a smile and, when Watson touched his shoulder, he turned willingly.

"Do try to be civil to Mrs. Hudson," Watson admonished. "I don't wish to sell the house only to find we've been thrown out."

"I shall try," Holmes said with mock solemnity.

Watson looked at him with exasperation. "I suppose that must do." He turned and started to don his jacket in preparation to leave, but Holmes told him to halt a moment and tucked Watson's shirt back in.

"Now you look like a proper widower." Watson gave him a strained smile and Holmes winked in return.

.

The rooms felt empty in Watson's absence despite the sounds of Mrs. Hudson in other parts of the house and the usual cacophony rising from the street. So Holmes devoted himself to "keeping busy" in the absence of new cases (he had not yet told the Yard of his return and did not care to until Watson was back at his side where he belonged, never mind that ridiculous promise to never involve him again).

Tearing down his papers and strings and burning them was the work of an hour; he gave up trying to remove all the small pins from the walls and paneling after half an hour. Watson could pick them out himself if their presence troubled him.

He spent several days at the library, filling the gaps in what newspapers he'd read of late, and sent several anonymous telegrams to Lestrade to correct his course on a few unsolved cases. Imagining Lestrade's bafflement when he received those telegrams was a great source of amusement.

His next efforts were devoted to checking in on his usual haunts and hideouts. He noted with interest the new construction on the underground and the progress on the new bridge and spent a while in disguise as a beggar to pick up the latest gossip. He returned to Baker Street in the wee hours of the morning, only to find an anxious Watson awaiting him.

"Thank God," Watson said, ceasing his pacing as soon as Holmes entered the sitting room. "I thought-well, never mind."

"You thought I'd disappeared again," Holmes said, dropping his wig and false whiskers on the dressing table.

"The thought did cross my mind," Watson admitted.

"Had I known you would be coming, I would have made an effort to be here."

"It was a whim. I had a few things I could bring over and had nothing better to do with my evening."

"So you thought you'd wear a hole in our carpet to pass the time," Holmes said wryly, handing Watson a tumbler of brandy.

"I haven't brought any of my books yet, and I wasn't going to leave until you returned."

"You are fortunate I did not stay out longer," Holmes said as he sat down in his armchair.

Watson remained standing. "I know." He looked at Holmes with an expression Holmes almost could have called longing and he remembered those long hours of watching Watson and yearning for him. But there was also hesitance in Watson's eyes, so Holmes didn't approach him. Instead, he said lightly, "Now that I've returned, what do you intend to do?"

"I had expected to return to the house, but I doubt I will find a cab at this hour." The mantel clock chimed half-past-two.

Holmes noted that Watson did not call his house "home". "My bed is at your disposal. I shan't be using it tonight."

"Why, because you won't be sleeping, or you don't want to sleep with me?"

Watson's gaze was intent despite the weariness Holmes could see in his stance. Holmes stood and returned his empty glass to the sideboard, weighing his words carefully before speaking to the wall behind Watson. "I would very much like to sleep with you, in all senses of the phrase," he admitted frankly. "But you are just as much in mourning now as you were a week ago."

"I meant sleep only in the sense of closing one's eyes to obtain some rest. The other part you made quite clear last week." Watson took a few steps toward the bedroom, then turned. "Well? Are you coming?"

Holmes mumbled an excuse about turning down the lamps and did so, then scurried after Watson. Watson had already begun shedding his outer clothing, folding everything carefully and setting them atop Holmes' wardrobe-it was the only uncluttered horizontal surface in the room, since Holmes had difficulty reaching it. Holmes rapidly stripped down to his undergarments, watching Watson the entire time and waiting to see if he would sleep naked as was his wont.

And Watson did hesitate, glancing in Holmes' direction as he fingered the hems of his own undergarments; after a moment he tore off the shirt in one violent movement, as if hurrying to do so before he could think better of it.

Holmes averted his eyes slightly until Watson had slid beneath the sheets and covered his nakedness. He only pulled the covers up to his waist, however, so when Holmes looked, he could see the fading marks on his abdomen, the only remaining proof of the child he had borne. Holmes was irresistibly drawn to these, and crawled onto the bed so he could touch them.

"Did it hurt?"

"These? No, they only itched terribly."

"And the rest?"

Watson seemed to hesitate a moment. "Some parts were quite painful. But . . . it was worth it."

Holmes didn't say anything more, just continued to lightly trace his fingers over Watson's skin.

"Are you going to turn down the lamp, or do you sleep with the light on these days?"

Holmes huffed and doused the light, then flattened his hand against Watson's stomach, feeling it rise and fall with each breath. It must have been quite firm to the touch when he was large with their child; now it was soft beneath his hand and he had a sudden impulse to lay his head on it like a pillow.

He spoke instead. "I will always reget that I was not here for any of it," he murmured, his fingertips almost imperceptibly stroking Watson's skin. "I'd like another chance," he added in a rush.

Watson stilled, even his breath halting for a moment. "Holmes," he said, sounding flabbergasted. "Are you trying to tell me you actually want a child?"

Holmes flinched at the tone in Watson's voice and quickly withdrew his hand.

Watson found his arm and gripped it. "No, don't misunderstand. I'm just . . . I never would have expected you to think about that sort of thing."

"I didn't. Not until, well . . . "

"You do realize that a child would require that you change many of your habits."

"Of course I do," Holmes said testily. "I have given it a good deal of thought."

"Then you won't mind if I think about it for a while before I give you an answer. Good night, Holmes." He removed his hand from Holmes' arm and rolled over so his back was to Holmes. His breathing soon deepened and Holmes stretched out beside him, careful not to get too close.

It took him quite a while to fall asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes drifted aimlessly through each day while Watson devoted himself to making the necessary arrangements for his return to the Baker Street rooms. In hindsight, it took Holmes far too long to remember that he could again observe Watson rather than lying about with a bad case of boredom; perhaps it was for the best that he had not resumed his work, if his mind was so impaired.

He eagerly donned the chair suit and crept into the house well before Watson woke. Watson's steps were slow and careful; he must not be sleeping well. He also never set foot in the study that day, instead spending a good deal of time up-stairs.

Holmes waited until the maid departed after teatime to sneak out of the house and hurriedly changed clothes there in Watson's shrubbery. Then he darted down the alley behind the house until he reached the cross-street; he fell in with the flow of foot-traffic and casually strolled back to Watson's street and along the pavement until he was at Watson's front door. He knocked lightly, but there was no answer. Of course.

He went around back and went in through the back door that he himself had unlocked before leaving. Watson was still upstairs, so Holmes went up to find out what he was doing.

The answer was obvious even before he caught sight of his elusive doctor: there were soft sounds of grief coming from the far dressing-room. As the nearer dressing-room was the one belonging to Watson, it was evident he had endeavored to tidy his late wife's effects and found himself caught in memories in the process.

Holmes wavered, uncertain if he would be welcome, but his foot found a creaking board and Watson's tear-choked voice called out, "Who's there?"

"It's only me," Holmes replied, coming just as far as the doorway. His eyes skimmed the room quickly, the open wardrobe and half-full trunk lending credence to his conclusions about Watson's activities. Watson was sitting on the small chair before the dressing-table, a blue dress draped over his lap. "You did say I was welcome to come to the house."

"I did," Watson agreed ruefully. "Maybe I shouldn't have." He stood and busied himself with tucking the blue dress into the trunk.

"It's going to wrinkle terribly if you pack it like that," Holmes commented.

"Why don't you do it then?" Watson snapped, then took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, there was no call - "

"Give it here," Holmes interrupted, crossing the distance with his hand outstretched. It was the dress Mary had worn for their first, rather brief, meeting; he set it carefully over the back of the chair and turned his attention to righting the mess Watson had made of the dresses already in the trunk.

Fortunately Mary had been fond of serviceable fabrics-easily wrinkled garments would have been a detriment for a governess-and they were easily settled into a better configuration. He had Watson hand him each remaining item from the wardrobe and he carefully packed them, saving the blue dress for last and laying it gently across the top, cushioned in tissue paper.

"Have you already done everything else?" Holmes asked after closing the lid of the full trunk.

"Yes," Watson said, sounding a bit lost. Holmes had him sit atop the trunk and stood beside him, one hand on his shoulder, while he regained his bearings. "Thank you. Her mother is coming tomorrow to pick everything up since I didn't know what to do with any of it. She offered to pack it as well, but I thought I could-thought I should-" he broke off and gasped for breath.

Holmes offered him a handkerchief and remained silent until Watson was breathing normally again. "I am sorry she's gone," he said. "She was worthy of you."

"I think that's the kindest thing you've ever said about her, Holmes." Fortunately Watson sounded like he was close to laughing rather than crying when he said it.

"She looked after you when I could not," Holmes said simply, patting Watson's shoulder and taking a step back to look at him critically. "You look terrible, old boy. Have you eaten today?"

Watson snorted. "That's rich, coming from you."

"I'll take that as a no. Does the maid leave something out for you when she leaves?"

"Usually, but I'm not hungry," Watson admitted. "All I want is a good bit of brandy."

"I'll go fetch it, then."

"I am perfectly capable of going downstairs."

"But will you manage to climb back up afterward?" Holmes asked shrewdly.

"Just go," Watson said impatiently, waving him off.

When Holmes returned, Watson had kicked off his slippers, removed his waistcoat, and was sitting against the headboard of his bed, legs stretched out in front of him. Holmes sat on the edge of the bed facing him, handed him a tumbler, and poured them both a generous portion from the nearly full decanter.

Watson considered the liquid for a moment, then said solemnly, "To Mary." He touched his glass to Holmes' and drained it in a single motion.

Holmes followed his lead, then poured more. Watson stared morosely at his glass, so, thinking of the cradle he'd seen wedged into a corner in Mary's dressing room, he said, "To the child I never met."

Again they emptied their glasses.

"I never would have expected that to bother you, but it does," Watson said, ruminating aloud.

"Very much," Holmes confirmed as he filled their glasses again. His hands trembled as he did so and Watson watched him with a slightly unfocused gaze; neither of them held their liquor well on empty stomachs.

They sipped in silence, which primarily consisted of Holmes watching Watson drink and faithfully refilling his tumbler, though he also worked his way through one refill-or maybe it was two . . .

When Watson spoke, his words had begun to slur. "Is that why you want another one?"

"I suppose that's part of it," Holmes said agreeably. At the moment, he could not be certain what all of his reasons were, as his mind was a bit of a muddle.

"I don't know if I can do it."

"The outcome is never guaranteed, but we can certainly try."

"I don't mean physically."

"I thought you wanted a family."

"I had one. They died." His breath hitched and he looked away from Holmes toward the empty side of the bed. "I don't know if I can endure something like that again."

"Then why come back to Baker Street? Even I will die eventually."

Watson met his gaze. "You've already died, and more than once. Having you now is . . . extra."

Suddenly Holmes was subject to a torrent of emotion that was not entirely the fault of the brandy, and he did the only thing he could do in the circumstances: he leaned forward and kissed Watson.

Watson kissed him back hungrily, reaching for him and growling with frustration when he realized he still held his tumbler of brandy. They broke apart long enough for Watson to drain his glass and for Holmes to set their glasses and the much-depleted decanter on the bedside table.

Without pulling away from Watson, Holmes shifted onto his knees and shuffled closer, then threw one leg over Watson's thighs and moved so he was kneeling astride Watson's lap.

Watson tried clumsily to remove Holmes' clothing, but he only managed half of the buttons on his shirt and the trousers thwarted him entirely. Holmes had better success with Watson's clothing, able to bare his torso and carefully expose his cock to the open air. Watson retaliated for Holmes' teasing touch by roughly stroking Holmes through his trousers, first palming him, then squeezing his balls firmly.

Holmes groaned and set about raking Watson's chest with his blunt nails and pinching his nipples. Watson moaned, momentarily releasing his grip on Holmes, who leaned down and took Watson's cock into his mouth.

Watson made an inarticulate sound and his head fell back against the headboard with a thump. When Holmes began sucking and applying his tongue, Watson's moans continued and he clutched spasmodically at the bedsheets and Holmes' disheveled hair. Holmes grinned around Watson's cock and set about making Watson howl with strategic application of lips and tongue and teeth.

All too soon Watson reached his peak, then went limp in the aftereffects of his fierce climax. Holmes sat up on his knees again, exceedingly pleased with himself, and worked Watson's trousers the rest of the way off. He also attempted to remove Watson's shirt but instead Watson grabbed him, pulling him down to lie flush against Watson's body.

Watson kissed him messily, sliding one hand down between them to again cup Holmes through his trousers. Holmes had intended to see to himself after Watson was in bed, so it didn't take much encouragement from Watson to renew his desire. He rutted against Watson's hand until the warm rush of his release dampened his trousers, Watson kissing him the entire time.

After that their kisses slackened in intensity; at length Watson murmured, "Stay until morning."

Holmes pulled away without responding and helped Watson out of his shirt. He had not planned to remain-on the contrary, he had limited his brandy intake so he could make his way home mostly unimpaired.

But as he hesitated, continuing the efforts to tuck Watson into bed, Watson's earlier depression seemed to develop before his eyes into an utter devastation that reminded him uncomfortably of his share in Watson's recent unhappiness.

"Please," Watson entreated once more when Holmes offered him one last swig of brandy.

"Yes, I'll stay," Holmes assured him, taking more brandy for himself as well.

* * *

Boxes of Watson's belongings were delivered with some regularity to Baker Street and were often accompanied by the man himself. Holmes was usually there to meet him, but sometimes he was out pursuing his own interests (he had finally notified Scotland Yard of his continued existence-and nearly gave poor Clarkie a heart attack-after Watson discovered him lurking in the study in the chair-suit for the third time and decreed that he wouldn't so much as kiss Holmes again until he started doing something productive with himself). Their visits did not last long-Holmes knew they were merely a means for Watson to reassure himself of Holmes' wellbeing-and never included anything that could have been considered improper.

To have Watson willing and yet remaining out of reach was maddening.

When the time came for Watson to sell the house and his practice, Holmes sent his brother a cryptic note as soon as the advertisement appeared in the papers. A buyer appeared on Watson's doorstep the following morning, ready and willing to pay the full price demanded, no haggling necessary.

Watson turned up at Baker Street with his remaining baggage one week later, looking both pleased and utterly perplexed. "His story seemed perfectly reasonable, but I can't help but think there is something odd about it," Watson admitted as they trudged up the stairs, Holmes preceding him with the heavier of the two bags.

"I can investigate if you'd like, but I don't see why you need concern yourself with it any longer," Holmes said dismissively, setting the bag down in Watson's room and just barely resisting the urge to tackle Watson onto the bed.

"Yes, you're right. As always," Watson said sounding resigned but with a smile on his face. He looked around his room at the boxes and crates still stacked haphazardly about. "I suppose I ought to do something with all of this."

"If you must," Holmes said, leaning against the door frame.

Watson glanced back at him, then squared his shoulders. "I must," he said resolutely.

"Suit yourself." Holmes wandered into the sitting room, stretched out on the settee with his pipe, and settled in to listen.

There were fewer exclamations than he might have expected (he had stacked some of the boxes quite poorly) and a considerable shuffling and sliding about of large items. Watson even emerged periodically and disappeared into the lumber room to store whatever he'd managed to empty.

In the afternoon, Watson suspended his efforts and insisted that Holmes join him for tea. He appeared in good spirits, but Holmes could see the signs that he was beginning to tire and decided to modify his plans for their evening-they could attend a concert another day, and staying in would increase the odds of success for the other activities he had on the agenda.

When Watson returned to his work, Holmes tended to his own. During tea he had determined the two most likely scenarios for the evening, so he prepared for both possibilities. That did not take long and he found himself at loose ends; he ended up lurking in the doorway of Watson's room, watching him without Watson knowing he was there. This watching was different than before; this time he was at full liberty to reach out to Watson should he wish to, but for now he was content to observe. The touching would come soon.

The evening papers arrived with dinner. Watson was quiet and introspective, not inclined to meaningless conversation any more than Holmes was, so they perused the papers rather than strain the comfortable silence. But in his silence, Holmes made sure to be as near to Watson as was possible, brushing his hand as they exchanged papers or passed the butter or salt, leaning close as if reading over Watson's shoulder (even though he'd already seen that paper), and sliding his foot alongside Watson's beneath the table.

Holmes was finished with food and papers well before Watson, but leaving the table would drastically reduce the odds of events going as he'd hoped. Instead of rising, he held the evening Times up as if still reading it and studied Watson over the top edge.

When Watson happened to look up and notice Holmes' gaze, he flushed and dropped his fork, which clattered to the floor. Watson bent to retrieve it, moving quickly at first but stopping abruptly partway down and proceeding slowly and with more care in picking it up and returning it to the table.

Holmes nonchalantly folded his paper and stood, moving around the table toward Watson. "Would a bath ease your aches? Or perhaps a massage?" He stopped behind Watson's chair and leaned over to speak in his ear, his lips brushing it as he murmured, "Or a massage in the bath?"

Watson shivered at the breath ghosting over his skin and swallowed with difficulty. "If you're trying to seduce me-" he started, and stopped when Holmes pressed a kiss to his temple. "It's working," he said breathlessly.

"Splendid. Come along, then." Holmes moved next to Watson's chair and held out his hand.

The bathing room stood ready thanks to Holmes' earlier preparation; all he had to do was turn on the taps while Watson undressed and gingerly climbed into the tub. Holmes stripped off his clothes and wrapped a towel around his waist, then knelt behind Watson and unstoppered a flask of oil.

Watson sighed when Holmes smoothed oil over his skin and began to knead his shoulders. Holmes was thorough, working down Watson's arms and back up again before proceeding down Watson's back. His shoulder and arm twinged painfully at the awkward angle; a different approach was needed. He slipped into the tub behind Watson, tucking his legs around Watson's waist. Thus positioned, and with Watson leaning forward and holding himself above the water with elbows braced on the lip of the tub, Holmes was able to give the entire length of Watson's back the attention it deserved.

Once Holmes' hands had devoted sufficient effort to the muscles that Watson no longer held himself so stiffly, his touch went from soothing to feeling, sweeping lightly over Watson's slick skin as Holmes leaned forward and buried his nose in the hair at Watson's nape. He peppered kisses along Watson's neck, licking each knob of bone, then dragged his mouth to that spot where neck joined shoulder and nipped lightly.

While his mouth was thus occupied by marking Watson's skin, he embraced Watson and allowed his hands free rein over Watson's torso. Watson leaned back against his chest with a sigh, his head resting on Holmes' left shoulder, his face turning toward Holmes'. Holmes heeded the wordless request and kissed him messily, fervently, deeply, all the while stroking Watson's chest and stomach, moaning into Watson's mouth with the pleasure of finally being allowed to explore him properly.

Holmes felt himself growing painfully hard and he couldn't resist twitching his hips to rub himself against Watson's back. Watson was panting against him, and one of Watson's hands guided his hand down to touch Watson's straining cock. He grasped it firmly and caressed its length, savoring the sound of Watson's groan and feeling his own cock jerk in response.

It was all too easy to bring Watson to completion and, by extension, himself, as the thrill of having Watson shivering to pieces in his arms quickly undid him. He slumped back against the tub and Watson lay limply against him, both endeavoring to regain their breath.

Holmes continued idly drawing his fingers over Watson's skin, so he both felt and heard it when Watson spoke. "You planned this."

"I anticipated it," Holmes corrected. "There is also oil in the bedroom."

"Hm. And what prompted such amorous behavior? This sort of thing is more along my line than yours."

Holmes licked Watson's earlobe and smirked when Watson shuddered. "Welcome home," he said huskily. "I have missed you."

By the time they cleaned and dried themselves, both were more than ready to resume where they had left off, this time in the comfort of Holmes' bed. After much shifting and rolling and one suggestion turned down by Watson, they ended up kneeling, Watson clutching the headboard while Holmes took him from behind, one hand on Watson's cock and the other between his legs, two fingers buried in the slick opening that had birthed their child-and would do so again, if Holmes had anything to say about the matter, despite Watson's earlier refusal to allow him to penetrate him in that manner.

It was quite late before they were finally ready to sleep, tangled in damp and sticky sheets and one another.

.

That night set the tone for those that followed; while they freely and frequently enjoyed each other's bodies, the one thing that Holmes most desired was strictly forbidden. When he pressed Watson on the subject, Watson would say only that he was still thinking about Holmes' request.

In all other respects, life settled into something resembling the normal state that had existed before . . . well, Before. They-well, Holmes-often preferred to act as if nothing had come between Before and the present, especially once Watson agreed to help Holmes on cases from time to time.

What bothered Holmes was not that Watson didn't accompany him every time-though he would have rather Watson did-but that he could not predict when Watson would say yes or no. Watson's behavior varied wildly with his moods, which also varied wildly depending on the date on the calendar as well as several external stimuli, but Watson's presence on a case seemed to be independent of his mood. Holmes puzzled over this, spending a good deal of time in the Study of Watson, but was not able to draw any conclusions that held true.

Eventually he even asked Watson about it one time when they were in the pleasant post-coital haze, hoping Watson would be forthcoming. Watson merely laughed and teased him for not figuring it out.

Watson also refused to speak on the subject of having another child, but he continually rebuffed Holmes' attempts to have sex in that manner, so that could be considered an answer of sorts. It just wasn't the one Holmes wanted, and he was determined to pester Watson until he received a different answer. (That his different answer might come in the form of Watson pushing him away entirely was something he preferred not to dwell upon.)

The months passed quickly and Holmes knew the anniversary of Mary's death-and that of their daughter? Had they died on the same day? He'd never thought to ask-drew near by a shift in Watson's mood. He became more melancholy and more prone to leave on his own early in the morning, remaining out until evening and returning home with grass-stained knees and a tear-streaked face. When Holmes witnessed his return from such a day, he wordlessly helped Watson from his clothes and into bed, brought him tea, and curled around him protectively.

Then one morning Holmes woke before dawn to find Watson already gone. He hurriedly dressed and checked the calendar; The Day had come.

It was a matter of only a moment's thought to realize where Watson had disappeared to and, after quickly checking a newspaper scrap tucked into the back of the last volume of his commonplace book, he followed.

It was not difficult to find Watson once he arrived at the graveyard, he being the only visitor at such an ungodly hour. Watson knelt before a small grey stone with a smaller one tucked against it; the larger of the two bore Mary's inscription, while the smaller bore just a first name.

Holmes joined Watson in his vigil and, during the ensuing hours as the sun crept carefully into the sky, Watson haltingly spoke of their illness, how the baby had not fussed as her temperature soared and her breathing became labored, how Mary slipped away in the night and he at first thought her stillness was his own fevered imagination, how the baby stopped breathing as she lay in his arms and he could not remember what to do so he just held her until someone took her away, how he nearly succumbed to his own fever and refused for two days to believe that they were truly dead. He had never been willing to speak of these things earlier, and Holmes listened with rapt attention.

When Watson had talked himself hoarse and the position of the sun signaled it was midday, Holmes coaxed him to return to Baker Street and he made no objection.

The afternoon was spent in the sitting room only so they could have easy access to the sideboard and the liquor it held. There may have been tears involved as well, but that could have been the influence of the brandy. And the claret. And the whisky he hadn't remembered was there . . .

When they finally collapsed into bed quite early in the evening, Watson was nearly asleep from the combined effects of excessive alcohol and grief. Holmes flopped down next to him, staring at him for a moment before demanding, "Tell me about her."

Watson dragged his eyelids open. "Who? Oh, Shirley?" At Holmes' nod, he sighed and closed his eyes again. "She was perfect. She looked nothing like you . . . just as well, since we hoped to pass her off as ours . . ." His words were slurred and sometimes were separated by several breaths. "But she could stare at you and it was like she could see into you. It was uncanny, and reminded me so much of you . . ."

He began snoring soon after trailing off the last time, and Holmes let him be. Holmes soon followed Watson into sleep, thinking about blond and blue-eyed children that looked just like Watson.

* * *

Watson continued wearing his mourning clothes for nearly a week after he could have returned to his usual wardrobe. He said he needed to ease into the idea more gradually; Holmes suspected he was using the time to find and reclaim all of the items that Holmes had 'borrowed' while he wasn't wearing them. Several things were missing from his drawers that had been there since Watson moved back in.

The day that changed everything started out quite badly. To begin with, Holmes was just about to sheath himself in Watson's welcoming backside when Lestrade came calling.

Lestrade dragged him off on a case just outside London that turned out to be an exceedingly minor matter that was resolved in less than ten minutes and was most definitely not worth the hour-long train ride each way.

This alone was enough to put him in a foul mood, but when taken in combination with the fact that he and Watson had not had sex in over a fortnight until their attempt that morning and they were interrupted for such an unworthy case, well, to say Holmes was frustrated would be a vast understatement. Murderously annoyed might be closer to the mark and Lestrade was lucky he didn't end up in the Thames.

Holmes maintained his composure on the long trip home by consoling himself that he and Watson could resume where they had left off when he returned. But when he arrived, Watson was absent. Mrs. Holmes assured him that Watson would be back by dinner, but it was only one o'clock and and he wanted Watson now. He flung himself on the settee and had a good sulk.

He was on his feet as soon as he heard Watson's familiar tread upon the stairs, moving quickly as if heeding Holmes' unspoken demand for his presence. Holmes remained in place long enough for Watson to step into the room and close the door, then he threw himself at Watson, pushing him back against the door with a thump and mashing his mouth against Watson's with messy enthusiasm. Watson clutched him tightly when he pulled away long enough to lock the door.

"Where have you been?" Holmes demanded, nipping Watson's collarbone through his shirt with each word.

"I had to see to a few things," Watson gasped, trying and failing to capture Holmes' lips with his own. "I thought you'd be gone longer. Was it really that bad?"

"Worse," Holmes said grimly, grinding his hips against Watson and unbuttoning Watson's shirt. "You wear too many clothes."

"I do not." Watson began to free Holmes' buttons.

"When will you get rid of all this black?" Holmes asked with distaste as he pushed Watson's jacket and waistcoat off his shoulders and into a heap on the floor.

"Tomorrow," Watson said, wrestling Holmes out of his shirt. "That's why I had to go out-I find I'm missing some items. Like this shirt." He waved the offending article in Holmes face, then let it fall to the floor. He stepped away from the door, grabbing Holmes' wrist and tugging him toward the bedroom. "Speaking of clothes, I want to show you something."

"Why are we talking about clothes when we could be naked?" Holmes asked petulantly as he was reluctantly pulled along.

"Because I found these and thought you'd like to see them." Watson propelled him toward the bed where several shirts and pairs of trousers were laid out.

Holmes couldn't think at first; the warmth of Watson beside him quite effectively distracted him from all other things. Then he realized the clothes were of a more generous cut than Watson usually wore and he immediately thought of the large shirt he'd seen Watson wear during his pregnancy.

Watson whispered in his ear, "My answer is yes."

Holmes shivered. "You are certain."

"Absolutely."

Holmes' mouth went dry and his hands shook as he tried to remove his trousers. "You, on the bed, now," he choked out.

Watson understood and finished undressing himself. He kissed Holmes as they advanced toward the bed, then Watson was stretched out atop the clothes.

Holmes pounced, clambering over him and kissing him deeply as he settled between Watson's legs. Watson was so very slick with arousal and so very warm and tight around him that Holmes could hardly bear it. Watson was similarly undone, crying out as he was breached and hooking a leg over Holmes' legs to keep him close.

They rocked frantically, kissing and groping as their hips canted together and brought them ever closer to release. Holmes surrendered first, driving one last thrust deep into Watson before coming with a cry. Watson followed immediately thereafter, clenching around Holmes as he spilled onto their stomachs.

Holmes relaxed atop Watson, feeling quite satisfied with himself and the state of affairs. "Why did it take you so long to decide?" he asked languidly.

"So long? No, I'd decided within a week. But I also decided that we couldn't try until my period of mourning was over."

"And you didn't tell me." Holmes bit down hard the nearest patch of skin, which happened to be the area where the neck meets the shoulder.

Watson nearly threw him off as he jerked in pain and yelled. He swatted the back of Holmes' head half-heartedly and said, "That is exactly why I didn't tell you sooner. You have poor impulse control, and I knew that as soon as I said anything, you'd be trying to talk your way into my pants."

"Is that so wrong?" Holmes asked coyly, pressing kisses to the bite mark he'd left.

"No, but it's going to be bad enough, us having a child. We didn't need a full-fledged scandal on our hands. You'd never be able to work with the police again."

"Rubbish. We would have been fine."

"If I turned out to be pregnant before my mourning was over? It's not a crime, certainly, but no respectable person would countenance that."

Holmes huffed a noise of disagreement and set about shutting Watson up by kissing him, thoroughly and without interruption, until they were both ready for another round. Holmes groaned to feel himself stiffening up while still inside of Watson; evidently it was quite pleasurable for Watson as well, as he quickly reached his climax and took Holmes with him.

After they had been sprawled in silence for several minutes to recover, Watson said lazily, "I need a bath."

Holmes carefully pulled himself away from Watson and gingerly crawled to the edge of the bed. "And you would like to share?" he asked hopefully.

"Sure. You can rub my back," Watson said with a cocky grin.

.

Now that Watson had agreed to his request, Holmes devoted most of his considerable energies to the care and feeding of his Watson. When they were out, he ensured Watson had his meals even if he himself didn't care to eat. When they were home, he was eager to do things for Watson-fetching things, helping him dress or don his coat and hat.

And, of course, they had sex quite frequently, Holmes all the while hoping that Watson would soon announce their efforts had been successful. When Watson bled for the first time after they began trying, Holmes felt acute disappointment, almost grief, and was irrationally annoyed when Watson didn't seem to share his disappointment.

Watson bore Holmes' attentions patiently at first-he even seemed amused-but when Holmes commented indignantly at his apparent nonchalance concerning his failure to conceive (which, admittedly, may not have been wise to mention while the man was hormonally imbalanced), Watson scolded him sharply and at length before storming out without his hat.

Holmes had a good deal of time to reflect on how poorly the conversation went, as Watson did not return for hours. He contemplated whether to apologize-and if so, how-and decided to wait and see what Watson's mood was like when he returned.

It was raining heavily when Watson returned, but at first he refused the towel Holmes tried to hand him.

"Watson-"

"No. Just let me ask one thing."

He looked uncertain and almost small as he stood dripping on the carpet just inside the door. Holmes stared at him and waited for him to continue.

"If I couldn't have a child, had never had a child, would you still - would we -" he gestured helplessly toward Holmes then toward himself as he visibly struggled to find the words.

"Would I still want you? Is that the question?"

Watson nodded emphatically. "Yes. Would you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Holmes scoffed, trying again to hand Watson the towel. "Of course I would. You're Watson."

Watson took a deep breath and the towel. "Good. Then I'd like to stop talking about it. Your behavior has been ridiculous and it's all quite unnecessary. I will tell you should our . . . efforts . . . prove fruitful," he said as he briskly rubbed his head with the towel and removed his wet shoes and socks.

"Yes, of course, if that's what you prefer." Holmes wasn't quite certain how to interpret the request. Had he done something wrong?

Watson sighed impatiently. "Oh, don't look like that. I need things to be normal, that's all. And you being considerate isn't what I'd call normal."

"Perhaps I reformed while I was away," Holmes said, feeling somewhat insulted.

Watson made a derisive noise. "This is only a recent occurrence, so I hardly find that likely."

"Next time you won't be getting a towel, then." Holmes threw himself into his armchair, resisting the urge to pout visibly. It wouldn't do to let Watson know his words had gotten to him.

"Don't be absurd." Watson stood in front of Holmes' armchair, though Holmes studiously refused to look directly at him. "Do you want to help me get out of these wet clothes?" he coaxed.

"No," Holmes said resolutely, crossing his arms so he would not have the urge to reach out.

"For heaven's sake." Watson disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door with a bang.

After a few minutes he emerged in his dressing gown and a dry shirt and trousers. He returned to the spot in front of Holmes' chair, but this time he bent over so his face was near Holmes' and his hands were on the arms to keep him from escaping.

"Stop pouting," he murmured, then kissed Holmes gently.

Watson kissing him was the one thing Holmes could not resist, and Watson knew it, the bastard. So Holmes kissed him back, as Watson knew he would; then things took a turn that was not as common but was no less appreciated for it.

While Watson was kissing Holmes, he was also unfastening Holmes' trousers, which Holmes didn't realize until somehow his cock was in Watson's hand being expertly stroked. When Watson stopped kissing Holmes, Holmes started to protest but was halted by that wonderful mouth lavishing attention on his cock instead. It was quite worth the lack of kissing.

Holmes bit his hand rather than cry out as Watson brought him to the brink, then swallowed his release. His hand was still in his mouth when Watson finished tucking him back in his trousers, so Watson gently pulled it away and pressed a kiss to the teeth marks. "Feel better now?"

"Hm?" He couldn't, at the moment, remember what he could have possibly been upset about.

Watson laughed.

.

Holmes did try to cut back on what Watson called his "hovering", but there were a few things that Watson had in the past called "common courtesy" that he attempted to continue-things like allowing Watson to bathe in peace sometimes, or picking up after himself when he changed his clothes or had to pull out a collection of papers to find something. They still, of course, had sex quite frequently, but not exclusively the kind that might get Watson pregnant.

So their interactions did go back to something like normal, and while Holmes still fantasized fairly often about a pregnant Watson, the subject did not command his every waking thought as it had at first.

Several months passed this way. Holmes had a number of interesting cases in that time and Watson almost always accompanied him, though from time to time he remained behind on account of the weather disagreeing with his scarred leg.

Holmes returned on one such day with some of Watson's tobacco-he'd run low and Holmes knew he wouldn't want to go out for it-and thoughts of a nice warm bath for both of them-just a bath, unless Watson was inclined for more.

Watson met him at the door with a peculiar look on his face. As soon as the door was closed, he said, "Holmes, I've something to tell you."

Holmes clutched the packet of tobacco in his hand, completely forgetting it was intended for Watson.

Watson took a deep breath, then said in a rush, "I'm pregnant."

Holmes blinked once, twice, then fainted dead away.


End file.
